Out of the Night
by venis-envy
Summary: It's been months since this thing started between them — this thing that Derek refuses to call anything specific, no matter what Stiles says it is. He can feel it, though, like a palpable energy between them — more than friends, more than pack, but implicit nonetheless.


Derek drags a hand down his face, blinking away his exhaustion in the glowing blue light of the computer monitor. It's nearly 3AM, and he still hasn't made much headway in the research department. He should have woken Stiles up like usual and just had him look up the needed information, but they've both had a rough day already, and he knows Stiles needs the rest. Derek often has to remind himself that humans don't heal the same way he does; Stiles was roughed up pretty thoroughly today when the Alpha pack intercepted their little woodland adventure, and while Derek did his best to keep the boy safe, there's only so much one can do when they're up against four other supernatural beings. Thankfully, the Alpha pack backed off when Deaton and Scott showed up, but Derek knows that wasn't the last Beacon Hills would see of them.

There's a faint hint of blood in the air, dried and miniscule in its measure, but there, nonetheless. He doesn't have to look to know the source. Two shallow cuts just above Stiles' left hip, given to him by the tree that had broken his fall when he was thrown several yards. Derek had thought it needed stitches, but Stiles insisted a little bit of superglue would suffice. He wonders what story Stiles will tell when asked about those scars in the future. There are several Snoopy Band-Aids covering the gashes, courtesy of Erica and her snide sense of humor.

Derek wants to go over to Stiles, peel away the bandages and press his hand to the damaged skin there. It's a strange urge he doesn't quite understand completely. He knows he can alleviate some measures of pain with a simple touch, but it's obvious Stiles isn't in too much discomfort right now.

He drags his eyes away, back to the task at hand as Stiles' breathing seems to level out even more, as if he's slipped into a deeper state of sleep. That can't be it, though, because moments later, Derek's research is interrupted by the sounds of Stiles' skin dragging against the sheets as he shifts positions.

"It's a zombies…" Stiles murmurs. "With like…chicken."

Derek spares a glance over his shoulder at Stiles' sleeping form. He's sprawled out on his stomach, blankets tangled low around his hips as he shifts and mumbles in his sleep. It isn't the first time Derek has been witness to this sort of late night entertainment in the House of Stiles. In fact, if he's being perfectly honest with himself, it's probably one of the main reasons he prefers to come here so late at night. Sure, he can go to Jackson if all he needs is the use of a computer, or even Scott, though that may take a bit more finesse than Derek cares to muster, but here in the darkness of Stiles' bedroom, there are just so very many one-sided conversations to be had. Derek may not have much to say, but he knows how to listen, and even more importantly, he knows how to keep secrets.

Some of the things he hears make no sense at all, jumbled words muffled by the feathery-soft pillow Stiles buries his face in after he laughs in his sleep. He doesn't tell Stiles about those, and he certainly doesn't tell him that he talks about Derek in his sleep, or how much Stiles seems to enjoy the time they spend together in the recesses of his own subconscious.

It's been months since this thing started between them — this thing that Derek refuses to call anything specific, no matter what Stiles says it is. He can feel it, though, like a palpable energy between them — more than friends, more than pack, but implicit nonetheless. Something everyone else seems to recognize even if Derek hasn't quite accepted it. It began with an awkward conversation about sex in which Derek mostly stared, jaw clenched and brows furrowed, as Stiles made lewd gestures with his hands to punctuate the mostly embarrassing array of words spilling from his mouth. It was as if a dam broke after that, Stiles constantly coming up with ridiculous excuses to talk to Derek, just to be near him. It's progressed to something more, though. Some unspoken understanding among the pack that Stiles and Derek belong to each other. He isn't even sure how it happened exactly; it just did. They've never even touched each other beyond the occasional pushing of one another out of danger's way or, less frequent recently now, Derek's penchant for shoving Stiles up against walls and lockers, after which, Stiles always smells more like Derek than either of them should be rightfully comfortable with.

Right now, even in the confines of Stiles' bedroom walls, Derek can't smell the sweet and familiar scent of their combined chemistry — only the slight tang of the injury, and a subtle undercurrent of something else. Something deliciously amicable and welcome: Stiles' growing arousal. His fingers twitch in response, aching to reach out and claim.

Instead, Derek looks; watches without touching, and it's truly an act of unnatural restraint to keep from doing so. Stiles is writhing in his bed, sheets kicked down so low that his entire naked back is exposed from freckled shoulders to narrow waist, right down to the dimples just above the top of his sleep pants.

Derek suppresses a moan, squeezes his eyes shut, and tries to force away the images in his mind of him closing the distance between them and dragging his lips over the bare skin above Stiles waistband, nuzzling against him until the boy smells of Derek and nothing else. He wouldn't even need to kiss him; just breathe him in, taste the scent of Stiles' skin on his tongue.

Soft noises of pleasure draw Derek's attention back to reality. He opens his eyes again only to be assaulted by the sight of Stiles rutting against the bed beneath himself, tiny movements of his hips seeming to cause so much sensation, if the sounds coming from his lips are any indication.

When the soft sounds of pleasure crescendo into coherent words of need you and please, and an unmistakable Derek, he moves from his spot at the desk, no longer able to resist the draw.

Slowly, as not to wake the sleeping boy, Derek crawls up from the foot of the bed, hovering over Stiles' body, careful not to touch him, but close enough to feel the warmth emanating from his skin.

Derek squeezes his eyes shut tightly, inhaling a deep and steady breath and relishing the underlying scent of Stiles beneath the other, less prominent aromas that cling to him.

The room is heady with the boy's arousal, and Derek is nearly feral in his need to touch him, to taste him. He settles instead for a gentle nuzzle against Stiles' hair, just behind his ear where the rest of the day seems to have forgotten to touch. There's no scent of Scott here, no smell of locker rooms or the stale air that seems to linger in Stiles' Jeep, no blood, no pine trees or dirt or fear. No, this spot smells only of Stiles himself: of exertion and need. Derek can't help but wonder if it's the scent of Stiles' dream.

He lowers himself onto the mattress beside Stiles, inches away and barely resisting the urge to slide his leg between the boy's knees.

There's a heat coming off of Stiles that Derek recognizes to be more than just his normal body temperature, subtle, almost unnoticeable. His heart rate has picked up speed, blood rushing through his veins. Stiles' fingers twitch before he slides his sleep-heavy hand down over his own hip, bunching the fabric of his loose-fitting pajama pants and rubs his palm against the outline of his erection.

Derek releases a stuttering breath, reaches out and drags the back of his fingers against Stiles' wrist, aching to cover the hand with his own, but settling instead for feeling the blood rush through the boy's pronounced veins there. Stiles' breath catches at the contact, stops altogether for entirely too long, Derek thinks, and then picks up again, steady and even. His face is relaxed, lips parted slightly, and Derek thinks he must be done dreaming now, but then Stiles begins to murmur something unintelligible, lips barely moving along with sounds that are more like puffs of breath than actual words. The corner of his mouth pulls up into a cocky smile that Derek is certain he's never seen Stiles wear before, and then Stiles is rolling into Derek's space, closing the meager distance between them and hitching his leg over Derek's hip.

Derek whimpers at the feeling of Stiles' length pressing against his, even through all the layers of fabric between them. The scent of his arousal mingles with Derek's own, amplifying his most primal urges. He closes his eyes, breathing him in, fingers hovering millimeters above the bare curve of Stiles' waist, just beside the bandages.

Derek is tense all over, muscles aching dully with the force of his restraint, but as Stiles buries his face in the curve of Derek's neck, laughing against his skin and mumbling more nonsense, he finally breaks, allowing his fingers to curl around Stiles' flank. It's surprising, the amount of relief that washes through him at even the smallest contact, but then Stiles' hand is slipping up the back of Derek's shirt, hips rolling against his, and the innocent placement of Derek's hand on Stiles' skin becomes more like an anchor holding him to some subtype of reality.

Derek inhales deeply, breathing in the scent of unconscious, unrestrained arousal as Stiles drags against him achingly slow, soft lips parted invitingly, so close that his breath bathes Derek's bottom lip with the faint remnants of minty toothpaste.

"Mmm...yeah," Stiles says, obviously still deep inside his dream. "Dirty boy. C'mere. Lemme give the dog a bone."

Derek bites back a laugh that's quickly driven from his mind by another slow roll of Stiles' hips against his. Blunt fingernails scrape against his back and Derek watches, mesmerized as the smile quickly falls from Stiles' lips.

For one brief, terrifying moment, Derek thinks it's over, that Stiles has found that place just beyond the veil of his dreams where the mind and body rest as one. He feels his own fingers digging into Stiles' hip as he draws him closer, unwilling to let go just yet.

And then Stiles' mouth is against Derek's, lips parted and breath shaky and stilted. It isn't a kiss — not really — but it's so close that there's an actual ache of want blooming in Derek's chest, building from the center of his heart and spreading outward slowly as he waits. Finally, when it becomes too much for him to take, Derek drags his lips back and forth against Stiles', slowly, invitingly, until the sleeping boy seems pick up on the silent request.

The kiss is gentle, dry, chaste in comparison to all the times Derek has imagined it, but not nearly as innocent as the way one would kiss a friend or family member. No, this is definitely more.

Derek can't help the growl that rumbles up from his chest as Stiles' tongue finally slips into his mouth, tentative and teasing, just a taste before drawing back into its own space again.

He lets his arm slide the rest of the way around Stiles, palm gliding up the hot skin of the boy's back as he holds him close, presses him against Derek's own body. He should feel guilty, and maybe later he will, but right now, the animalistic side of his consciousness justifies his actions with the simple knowledge that Stiles does belong to him, just as he belongs to Stiles.

As Stiles shifts his weight, pushing Derek onto his back and rolling almost entirely on top of him, Derek relents to the part of his mind urging him to give in to carnal desires. Derek thrusts his hips against Stiles', arms wrapping around the boy possessively as their lips meet again. This time, when the experimental slide of Stiles' tongue against his doesn't last long enough, Derek chases it with his own. Wrapping one hand around the back of Stiles' head, fingernails scritching in the short hair there, Derek guides the kiss deeper, tasting every bit of Stiles' mouth, every bit of Stiles' need.

The need for oxygen is what finally convinces him to pull back a little, just enough to drag in a breath of air before peppering small kisses against Stiles' jaw.

Stiles is rutting against Derek, practically humping his thigh, his own leg bringing the perfect amount of friction against Derek's cock, and Derek can feel the tension building in both their bodies, can scent it in the air. They're both going to come, just like this, in their pants, and Derek won't be able to leave after that. He won't be a coward and let Stiles wake up alone, sticky and hazy with no knowledge of his dream being anything more than just that.

For a moment, he allows himself the thought of waking up with Stiles smiling over at him, a distinct look of I told you so on his sleep soft features before kissing Derek again, both of them fully awake and aware. Derek can't stop the flare of heat spreading through him, the coiling in his center, the tightening of his balls.

"Fuck." The sound startles Derek slightly, not necessarily because Stiles is still speaking, talking in his sleep, but because the boy rarely ever swears properly and Derek finds it unreasonably, inexplicably hot.

Stiles loops one arm up under Derek's and holds onto his shoulder for leverage as he grinds against him, and that's all it takes.

When Derek pries his eyes open to seek out Stiles' mouth for one more kiss, he catches a glimpse of brown eyes, open and alert, pupils blown wide in the darkness of the room, but surely also from the intensity of desire.

Stiles is awake, and Derek realizes with a skitter of his heart that he isn't even sure how long he's been alert, aware of their bodies pressed against one another, of the kissing and touching and all but fucking with their clothes on. Derek had been so lost in the moment that he didn't even notice a change in Stiles' breathing or heartbeat, and maybe that's because it was all masked in the reality of what they were doing.

Stiles' expression is uncharacteristically somber as he gazes down at Derek, searching his face for answers Derek just doesn't have. But then, Stiles isn't really asking. He releases a breathless little laugh, the right corner of his mouth tugging up slightly more than the left in a genuine and familiar smile before he's kissing Derek again. His heart beats against Derek's chest, loud and erratic. Derek would be concerned if he didn't know it was due to excitement and the rapid build of impending orgasm.

Stiles twists his fingers into Derek's hair almost painfully as he moans into Derek's mouth. It's a sound that could almost be mistaken for inhuman in its nature just because of the naked desperation it's laced with.

Derek comes, pressing a feral groan into Stiles' neck, gripping his hips too hard just to hold the boy still for a moment.

"Oh my God," Stiles says, voice unsteady. "Did you just come? Did I actually make you come, Derek?"

Derek doesn't bother telling Stiles to shut up, or even nodding his assent. He's too far gone to acknowledge anything but the slowly increasing thrust of Stiles' hips against his over-stimulated cock. Derek grits his teeth, resolved to let Stiles use him as he sees fit without complaining or adjusting the boy's position for Derek's own comfort.

"Oh, God," Stiles murmurs. He bites at Derek's bottom lip, teeth scraping gently at the soft flesh before slicking his tongue against Derek's again.

Stiles tenses in Derek's arms, burying his face in the crook of Derek's neck and muffling a sound of intense pleasure as he reaches his own orgasm. Derek would be disappointed with the muted sounds of Stiles' gratification if it weren't for the fact that he can feel it vibrating through him from Stiles' body.

The boy goes limp on top of Derek, tiny twitches of aftershocks jolting through him every now and then. He's warm and heavy and sated, and Derek wraps his arms tightly around him, holding him in place, keeping him there.

"I'm not one to say I told you so," Stiles mumbles against Derek's shoulder. "But..."

"Yes, you are," Derek replies.

"All right. But, to be fair, you couldn't really be expected to resist all this Stilinski charm much longer." Stiles nips playfully at Derek's throat before soothing the spot with the flat of his tongue. "I know we'll be good together," he says softly. "We already are. Just, you know. Now it'll involve more touching."

Stiles reaches a hand down between them, presumably trying to readjust and avoid the mess of come.

"Come on," he says, dragging himself up off of Derek, but not before one more kiss. He takes Derek's hand as he slides out of bed and gives him a little tug. "Shower, then sleep."

Stiles doesn't even bother asking Derek if he's staying the night. He doesn't have to. It's as if all the pieces are finally falling into place, and they both just know. No one will be the least bit surprised.

As Derek rises up out of bed and allows Stiles to lead him into the bathroom, he spares a thought for his pack, manipulative and cunning, but with the best of intentions. He knows if this thing between himself and Stiles hadn't manifested tonight, they probably would have had some elaborate plan to finally push Derek over the edge and cut the tension between him and Stiles. It was only a matter of time before he stopped trying to deny what everyone else already knew, and as Stiles strips Derek's clothes off him, pushing him under the hot spray of water before stepping in and wrapping his arms around him, Derek can't help but laugh at himself for putting this off for as long as he has.


End file.
